(If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to use this blog as a writing tool as well as a comedic storytelling device.)
The small black line flashed repeatedly. Blinking over and over again as he stared. Blinking. It waited for orders, yet the general had none to give as his fingers lay still. Blinking.
People refer to white as a color. But white is not a color. In fact, it is the absence of color, the absence of any wavelengths that represent color.
In this case, white represented the absence of words, a blank canvas waiting to come alive, waiting to be filled with the color of action and emotion. Instead, it remained empty, devoid of any characters or vitality. The white lay undisturbed.
As he looked at the screen, his eyes focused intently on the cursor. Behind the fixed stare were feverish thoughts, begging and pleading to come together. The disjointed pieces swam around trying to find a way out but only found walls at every turn.
Nothing came easy now. Every opportunity had been a struggle for him lately, even in times like these when the energy was there. Before, it was simple. It flowed freely in rapid gusts, the words floating along effortlessly in their journey. Now, it was almost impossible. It was work. It was everything and nothing at the same time. It was white.
Reaching forward, his fingers brushed across the keys, a subtle caress that only a few could understand. There was a sense of relaxation many times when his fingertips played their symphony, but the music was on life support. His fingers lay there, frustratingly close to releasing the pressure inside, if only he could find the key.
Did he need more focus? Yes, focus. We need that.
Turning off the lights, the screen became the sun of the room, tossing light in all directions. In darkness, perhaps he would have no choice. Nothing else could distract the navigators inside.
Then again, the white was brighter than ever now. It leaped forward, bathing him in the nothingness. He was soaked now, drenched in futility and his bright void. It was plastered all over his shirt. And the line still blinked.
Lights back on. Time for a new strategy.
The bookshelf stood only a few feet away. Acres of books and pages. Sports, philosophy, poker, fiction – the kind of literary buffet you would expect from a scribe. Or at least someone who pretends to be one.
It was the second row. Five or six books in a row. The bookmarks extended from different points. Page 135. Page 62. Page 99. Page 244. All were in varying stages of reading, none finished. When was the last time he completed one?
Still white. Still flashing.
Distractions continued to seduce his mind. An envelope lay on the desk, an invitation to a wedding inside. One of his college buddies was taking the leap, the one who never dated the same girl more than two weeks.
Everyone would be there, spinning their web of tales about their lives, each one trying to win the award for Most Impressive False Happiness in a Short Film. Too many contenders to try and overtake the lead. He knew he should go. Part of him even wanted to go. How long had it been since he was together with those friends from yesterday? But was it worth the trouble to re-open himself?
Still white. Still flashing.
It was no longer about blockage or frustration. Things were personal now between him and the canvas. The prisoners beat against the walls, clanged the bars with loud shrieks. No response. No movement from the warden. Only silence, a confident silence that reaffirmed his authority over the yard.
Everything about him reached out and pulled at the covers – everything except the parts that could do something about it. Funny how you can want something to happen so bad that your body insures that it doesn’t. Logical? Hardly. Painful? Definitely.
To the right of the screen, the picture rose from his desk. Behind the glass, her glow was the only image that could possibly be more intoxicating than the grip of the screen before him. The smile warmed his eyes at every turn, her hair cascading down and past her shoulders. The eyes gazing back, a soothing assurance reflecting from the tranquility.
They had been in the park that day, basking in the brightness of their euphoria. His hands ran across her skin as they sat together, tracing the smoothness of her stomach. He could glide his finger over her graceful body, a shine and a warmth coming from it that he had never experienced before. His time with her left him with the same ease that his mind felt when he could expel his thoughts to the page, a tenderness that couldn’t possibly be matched in any other time.
Things were different now. There were so many things to say that he never said anything. So many times he dialed. So many times his finger refused to hit send. We’re on different paths now was how he reasoned it. But that was hardly a reason. And he knew it. Something was holding him up. Somewhere there was a disconnect. How long had it been?
Immediately he turned back to the screen and knew. The answers had been there for a while. His mind simply choose to hide them in the forest.
It wasn’t just the screen.
Still white. Still blinking.
